


The Littlest Untruth

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Molly, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Molly, Beating, Bossy Lestrade, Case Fic, Engaged Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, English Village, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, French Characters, Gen, Happy Ending, Injured Sherlock, Minor Injuries, Molly Is Patient, Molly Saves the Day, Murder Mystery, POV Sherlock Holmes, Poor Sherlock, Psychics, Quiz Bowl, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock speaking French, Smuggling, Television Quotes, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly need to travel away from London for a case, but when they make it to the village of Hatherleigh the car they are using breaks down. Molly is unaware that the small village is connected to his case, and when the proprietress of the inn assumes they’re a married couple he doesn’t disabuse her of the notion. He hopes that with the phone lines being down nothing will happen regarding the case but when the co-owner of the local garage is found dead in the other inn and Sherlock’s expertise is requested, he slowly realizes the fiction he’s perpetrating could be quite dangerous for both him and Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdrisSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/gifts).



> So OMG, this is my 700th fic posted on AO3! ::throws confetti:: I'm pretty damn proud of myself for that. I decided to do something really fun. I'm a huge fan of a few diffeerent series by Acorn Media, and they have really cool trailers at the beginning of their box sets to advertise their series. I pulled all the quotes from three different trailers (specifically, from the box sets for Fortysomething, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries series 1 and Midsomer Murders set 25) and had my Tumblr followers pick their favorites to include in this fic (at the end of each chapter will be the original quote, in case I tweaked it, and what program it's from). My friend **IdrisSmith** sent me a really fantastic idea for a fluffy Sherlolly fic (where Sherlock and Molly end up in a small village and it's assumed they're married and they're stuck there for a few days) and I worked in the case angle for it so it might not be _quite_ as fluffy. But anyway, I hope all of you enjoy this story!
> 
>  **Edit:** As this fic was finished for WIP Big Bang, it got art from the lovely [Twisted_Slinky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky)! There's a link at the end of the work, but please also click this small thumbnail to go directly to their AO3 post to show them love by leaving them kudos and comments!
> 
> [ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7738615)

It wasn’t often a case got to take him out of London, or that he got to bring Molly with him, but this had presented a golden opportunity for the two of them to take a much needed vacation with each other. Since the events of Moriarty’s return they had gotten closer and closer, their relationship becoming deeper and more personal, and he had found himself becoming very attached as well as very attracted to his most trusted pathologist. But he’d kept those thoughts and feelings to himself to keep her safe. When Moriarty had her kidnapped, though, he nearly tore London apart to find her, and once he had her safe he didn’t want to let her go without telling her how he felt. He had thought that he would stumble over the words, that he wouldn’t be able to articulate just how important she was to him, how much she meant to him, how much he needed her and how much he cared. She had let him get it all out and kissed him soundly afterward before assuring him she felt the same exact way.

They kept their relationship a secret except from a select few, those closest to the two of them. He knew she might prefer it to be otherwise but it really was in the best interest of their safety. Still, it had been a year and he felt she deserved something special, and so bringing her along on the case where he could use her expertise and turning it into a vacation of sorts seemed to be the answer to it all. She had been pleased with it, and now they were in Devon, on their way to their destination, when he began to experience a problem with the car they had rented. On top of it all the weather was threatening to turn horrid at a moment’s notice. “Damn,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“There’s something wrong with the car,” he said as it began to stall. He managed to get off onto a side road before it died completely. He pulled out his mobile but saw he had no service. “Do you have service here?”

She reached for her handbag and pulled out her mobile, fiddling with it for a moment before shaking her head. “No, nothing.” She looked around. “Where are we?”

“Just outside Hatherleigh,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too far of a walk, I hope. At least if we can get to the village we can get someone come tow the car and get a roof over our heads for the night before the rain starts.”

She nodded. “Let’s bring an umbrella, just in case,” she said.

They got out of the car and began to walk towards the village. Once they encountered someone they asked for directions to the garage, and when they got there Sherlock made arrangements for their car to be picked up and towed in with the man working there. After that he and Molly headed to Radnors Bed & Breakfast. It was the only one in town that might have an opening, or so the man at the garage had thought. The storm had hit while they were taking care of business with the car and it was a brutal one, so he and Molly were soaked even with the umbrella by the time they opened the doors to the inn.

“Oh, you poor things!” the woman behind the desk said once they had stepped inside. “Come in, come in. Such horrible weather to be stranded in.” Sherlock gave her a curious look. “My husband said there was a car abandoned on the side of the road and I put two and two together. Let me get you something warm to drink. Is tea all right?”

“Yes,” Molly said, her teeth chattering. “Thank you.”

“You’ll warm right up now that you’re inside,” she said warmly as she busied herself getting Molly and Sherlock tea. Once that was settled she looked at the two of them. “Now then. How can I help you?”

“Do you have a room for the night?” Sherlock asked. “The man at the garage said you might.”

“Why yes, we do!” she said warmly. “It’s our best room, which I’m sure you would both love. Nice double room, old fashioned washrooms with a modern touch, hairdryers…just perfect for a married couple like yourself. On your honeymoon?”

Molly straightened up. “We’re not—”

“On our honeymoon,” Sherlock said, cutting her off. “First anniversary, actually.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll get the room all booked for you.” Sherlock handed her his credit card and her eyes widened but she said nothing. After a few minutes she came out from behind the desk. “All right then. I’m assuming Tommy will be by later when he’s got your car towed in and then we’ll go get your luggage so it stays dry, and hopefully tomorrow everything will be fixed and you can be on your way to wherever your destination is.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Do you have a phone I may use?”

“Unfortunately the landlines are down at the moment, and mobile service is spotty,” she said. “We had a bad storm a few days back. Put the village back in the dark ages, really. Damn global warming and all that, causing havoc with the weather.” She picked up the keys. “Now. Let’s get you both to your room, shall we?”

Sherlock and Molly followed the inn’s proprietor to their room, and she let them in. Sherlock looked around for a moment and then went to the bed and lay down. Molly didn’t join him, though. She began to pace. He watched her for a few minutes. “Molly?” he finally asked.

“Married, Sherlock?” she asked him. “ _Married_?!? It’s not like she didn’t recognize you. It’s not like you aren’t a big name here in the UK. You telling people in a tiny village in Devon that we’re _married_ isn’t the type of thing that’s going to stay quiet for long.” She said it all in a huff, pacing at the foot of the bed.

“Then why make it a lie?” he said from his position on the bed. He’d been thinking about it more and more lately, the idea of marrying Molly. He relished the idea of not having to sneak around, of having her and him living in the same home, of them having a future together. To be truthful, he knew she’d be safer if no one knew they were together but he was tired of the lies, tired of the secret. He wanted to tell the world he was in love with Margaret Elizabeth Hooper and he wanted to marry her. “Why not just marry me?” 

She stopped and stood absolutely still. He was almost afraid that she was petrified with how still she was. He sat up more and looked at her, wondering if he should get off the bed to go to her. “A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anyone who asks her,” she said finally, her voice quiet and sad. “He expects her to say yes at the drop of a hat even to a stupid, insensitive, off-the-cuff proposal like that.”

“Molly—” he said, but she shook her head, finally moving and going back to her things to grab her handbag. She pulled her book out of it and made her way to the loo, and he dropped back down onto the bed with a sigh. He had indeed mucked it all up, just like he’d known he would. With a sigh he grabbed a pillow and went searching for another duvet. He might as well make himself settled on the floor for the evening. One night on the hard surface wouldn’t be too bad, he supposed. By the morning the weather should clear up, the roads would be fine and they could be on their way. He just hoped he could fix their relationship as easily as he could solve the case, whenever they got to their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anyone who asks her.”_ \- **Emma (1996)**


	2. Chapter 2

It was quite some time later, but he couldn’t sleep. He could hear Molly tossing and turning on the bed. She’d put on a face when they got dinner at a local restaurant and acted as though she was enjoying her time with him and she was madly in love with him, but when they got back to their room she gone to the loo to change into her pyjamas and then gone to bed, making no indication she wanted him to join her. He’d taken the spare duvet and a pillow and attempted to go to sleep on the floor. He wasn’t sure what time it was when there was a knock on the door. He stood up and glanced over at Molly, who seemed to be ignoring him, before heading to the door. He opened it up and looked at a young man looking nervous. “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I’m Sergeant Jack Jones,” he said. “I…there’s been a death at Thomas Roberts House. It looks suspicious but I’m not entirely sure, and I was wondering if I could get your opinion?”

“I’m on holiday,” he said quietly.

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I would appreciate it,” he said. 

He glanced back at Molly, who had sat up in the bed. “I suppose,” he said finally. “Give me a few moments?”

“All right,” the sergeant said with a nod.

Sherlock shut the door and then went to his bags to get a change of clothes. Molly pulled her knees up to her chest. “What is it?” she asked.

“There’s been a death and my opinion’s been asked for,” he said. He began to undress. “I don’t think I’ll be too long.”

“Would it be all right if I went with you?” Molly asked.

“I suppose so,” he said with a nod.

She got out of bed and began to get dressed herself. When they were ready they opened the door and Sergeant Jones drove them to the Thomas Roberts House. He vaguely paid attention as he was told the room he was being take to was the Chalcraft Room, and he took in all the details: king size bed, window overlooking the town, dead body near the bed. The sergeant who had requested his presence looked nervous and he idly wondered if this was his first homicide. And it _was_ a homicide; even an idiot could see that, despite the effort to make it seem the victim had fallen and hurt himself. There was nothing to hurt himself on, first off, and the blood seeping from the back of his head was a rather big giveaway. A man and his wife stood inside the room with a uniformed officer keeping an eye on them.

“Do you have a gift for this sort of thing, Mr. Holmes?” the young sergeant asked, tearing his gaze away from the body to look at Sherlock, who was only paying him the vaguest amount of attention. He was already taking in the scene as it was, analyzing each bit of information he saw.

“Yes, sometimes I think I do,” Sherlock murmured, kneeling next to the body. “Molly, come take a look.”

Molly moved closer to him. “Do you have gloves in your Belstaff?” she asked.

“Always,” he said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a pair before handing them to her. She slipped them onto her hands before tilting the dead man’s head slightly. “Sharp blow to the back of the head,” she said, leaning in closer. “I can’t do much here but I’d say that was probably cause of death.”

“What are you doing?” the man who discovered the body asked, eyeing her suspiciously. “How do you know what you’re talking about?”

“I speak for the dead,” Molly said offhandedly, concentrating on the dead man’s skull. The man scoffed at that and she turned and glared. “I’m a pathologist, trained at King’s College. I’ve worked at Barts Hospital in London for seven years now, assisting Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes in particular, and I’m one of the best in the world at what I do. So if you have a problem with that, kindly shut your trap and keep it to yourself. I’m trying to work.”

The man’s wife snickered slightly at the gobsmacked look on her husband’s face, and Sherlock looked at Molly with a touch of pride. “Nicely handled,” he said.

“Well, I’m still a bit miffed at you,” she said, lowering her voice. “I didn’t need anyone else getting on my nerves right now.”

“Only a bit?” he asked.

She was quiet. “I don’t like sleeping alone,” she said finally.

“Then when we can hand this off to the proper authorities, I’ll come join you in bed and you won’t be alone,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “All right.” She lowered the dead man’s head again and then looked at the constable. “It’s highly likely it’s foul play,” she said.

“Murder? Are you sure?” Sergeant Jones asked.

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Well I don’t think he hit _himself_ on the head,” she said. “And I’m sure Sherlock can tell you that, with the fact there’s nothing nearby the body, the killer took it with him. I would ask for a list of what in this room has a ninety degree sharp edge and is heavy and see if anything matching that description is missing. Chances are, that’s your murder weapon.”

“I concur with my…wife,” he said, deciding to throw the term in there at the last moment. “This wasn’t an accident. This was deliberate.”

“Damn,” the sergeant replied. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“It can’t be murder,” the man said. “It just...it _can’t_ be. No one in this village is a _murderer._ ”

“Are you the owner?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded. “Sir, a man was murdered in your inn, therefore it follows that there must be a murderer.”

The man opened his mouth to reply, glaring at Holmes, but Sergeant Jones shook his head and then man closed his mouth. The sergeant turned to Sherlock and Molly then. “All right. I’ll start rounding people up. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.”

“You’re welcome,” Molly said, inclining her head slightly. She stood up and looked around the room. “This is a rather nice room. I almost wish we could have stayed here.”

“They were booked solid,” he said.

“I know. And I’m not in the mood to move into a room where a murder took place, even if they could get it all cleaned up and released before the morning.” She yawned after a moment. “Let’s go back to bed, Sherlock. I’d like to actually get some sleep so we can leave in the morning.”

“You’re having your car fixed, right?” the sergeant asked, piping up.

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re having your car fixed, at the local garage, right?” he asked. “That’s why you got stranded here in Hatherleigh?”

“Yes,” Molly said with a nod.

Sergeant Jones pointed to the dead man. “This is the co-owner of the garage, Herbert Fitzwilliam. I don’t know if Tommy will be up to doing much tomorrow.”

Sherlock bit back a groan. “Is there any chance we could see about renting a car, then?”

“Not really, mate,” he said with an apologetic look on his face. “Rental shop closed up here a few months ago.”

With that, Sherlock sighed. “And I have no way of telling Lestrade of the delay with the phone lines being down,” he said quietly to Molly.

“Well, hopefully it will all get sorted soon,” she said, offering him her hand. “For now, let’s just go to bed and see what happens in the morning, all right?”

He nodded, taking her hand. “All right,” he said with a nod. He got the feeling it was going to be a long day tomorrow while they waited to see what could and couldn’t be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you have gift for this sort of thing, Miss Marple?” “Yes, sometimes I think I do.”_ **\- Agatha Christie’s Marple**
> 
> _“I speak for the dead.”_ **\- Da Vinci’s Inquest**
> 
> _“Murder? Are you sure?” “Well I don’t think he hit **himself** on the head.”_ **\- Midsomer Murders**
> 
> _“Sir, a woman was murdered in your house, therefore it follows that there must be a murderer.”_ **\- Midsomer Murders**


	3. Chapter 3

It had been much more comfortable sleeping in the bed than on the floor, and Sherlock found he had actually gone to sleep once he had Molly curled up against him. Nights spent together were quite rare, as there were still the occasional photographers hanging around him. He could manage to sneak into her flat maybe twice a week, if he was lucky, and he never got the opportunity to stay the entire night, so he had been looking forward to waking up in bed with her.

That was why he was disappointed to find he was in bed alone. He found a note from Molly that said she had tried to wake him for breakfast and he’d been dead to the world, so she was going to get him something and poke around a bit and see if she could learn anything. He knew she had rather good sleuthing skills, both the ones she had developed on her own and those she had learned under his tutelage, and he had no doubt she would be able to pick up some pertinent information.

He got dressed, debating between casual clothing that he had bought specifically to blend in for the case or the smart suits he usually wore. He decided the casual clothing would be best, as the few people he had seen the day before seemed to be more casually dressed. He put on the trousers and shirt, going over the case he was on in his head. It was almost a fortunate quirk of fate that he and Molly had ended up here in this particular village, though Molly didn’t know that.

Lestrade was investigating the murder of a young man named Russell Cameron. He had been attached to a sheep farm outside this village, and had been found dead in a shady part of London, shot in the back. Sherlock had been brought in when it looked as though the young man had been part of an elaborate smuggling ring based out of Torquay. Sherlock had tried to contact people in Hatherleigh for information but had been unable to make phone calls, so he’d planned a detour on his way to Torquay. Being stuck here, however, had not been part of the plan.

He’d put on his shoes when the door to the room opened and Molly came in, a bag in hand. She grinned at him. “I see you’re finally up.”

“I would have enjoyed things much more if I hadn’t woken up alone,” he said.

“I couldn’t help it. I was starving,” she said, going up to give him a quick kiss. He kept her close, though, and deepened it. He loved kissing her, loved the feel of her lips pressed against his, loved running his hand up and down her back while he kept her close against him. After a moment she pulled away and looked at him, her eyes sparkling. “You had plans, didn’t you?”

“We never really get to linger in bed while we’re in London,” he said, keeping his hands at the small of her back while she wound her arms around his neck. “I always have to leave while it’s still dark, while you’re still asleep. And since they think we’re married anyway…”

“Well, you’ll get your chance to wake up with me tomorrow morning,” she said. “Tommy Stack said the garage will be closed all day today, out of respect for his partner. He promised he’d get to work on the car first thing tomorrow, but we have to stay here at least one more night. But Pamela said it’s rather slow right now and we can have the room the whole weekend if we need to.”

“Pamela?” he asked.

“The innkeeper. I chatted with her and her husband, Marcus, during breakfast. They’re really quite lovely. Since there aren’t many local events going on right now and most people who come for the weekly events only come for the single day, this room is usually open.”

“Ah,” he said. “Did you manage to learn anything else?”

“Not much, though there’s a pub here called the Tally Ho,” Molly said. “They’d had this big quiz night thing planned as a way to spice things up and they were going to cancel but the local business association convinced the owner to do it anyway, for the town morale. I hit it off with Maggie Thorpe, the owner of the local salon, while I was getting you something to eat while trying to avoid giving details about the murder and she asked me to be on her team. I thought you might want to nose around while I’m answering quiz questions?”

Sherlock nodded. “When does it start?” he asked.

“Five,” she said.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her neck. “We have plenty of time to spend here, then, before we go out and see what else we can learn. Plenty of time to celebrate our anniversary,” he said.

“It’s not like we’re on a _real_ anniversary trip, Sherlock,” she pointed out.

“But it is our anniversary,” he said, pressing a kiss lower, nipping slightly at her pulse point. “It’s been seven years ago today that I stepped foot in the basement at St. Barts and found you elbows deep in my murder victim.”

She laughed softly. “I suppose that’s just as good as a one year marriage anniversary,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she shut her eyes. “Did you imagine seven years ago that you and I would be in a small village in Devon and you’d be trying to shag me while we were pretending to be married?”

“No,” he said. “I had thought I’d run you out of the morgue in six months. But you’re quite stubborn. I like that.”

“I’m glad,” she said before she leaned in to kiss him. The kiss became heated quite quickly, and he began to reach for the hem of her jumper when he heard a thud outside the window. He stilled, as did she, and they moved to look down. There were two men underneath, and one had shoved the other against the building.

“Holmes arrives here at Devon. _Pourquoi_?” one asked, his voice unmistakably French accented.

“Because there’s something amiss,” the other man said, his voice low. “I think someone is about to die.”

“Someone already _did_ die,” the French man said.

“What?” the second man asked, surprised. “When?”

“Last night, during the storm.” He looked around. “ _Pourquoi est-il dans le Hatherleigh_?”

“ _Je ne sais pas. Le plus tôt il part, le mieux ça sera_ ,” the second man replied.

“ _Devons-nous être inquiets_?” the French man asked.

The second man thought about things for a moment. “ _Pas pour le moment. Mais nous avons besoin que Sherlock Holmes et que son épouse partent d'ici rapidement avant qu'ils ne commencent à gêner. S’ils commencent à interférer dans nos plans, nous allons devoir prendre des mesures._ ” Then he moved away from the man. “Work on perfecting your British accent. Your French accent is still too thick.”

“ _Oui_. I mean, yes,” the first man said with a nod. The second man turned and walked away while the first began to have a cigarette.

Sherlock looked at Molly. “I think I need to go have a chat with a Frenchman.”

“Sherlock…” she said, fear in her eyes. “Please, let’s just tell Sergeant Jones what we saw.”

“Molly, we were threatened,” he said.

“I know. I speak French,” she said as he pulled away and headed to the door. “Why do you think you can just run off on your own?”

Sherlock knelt down slightly, pulling his gun out of his ankle holster. It was smaller than his usual piece, but he’d put on the holster this morning just in case. He held it up to show her. “Because I’m carrying a gun,” he said with a shrug.

Molly sighed. “Just promise me you’ll try your best not to use it, all right?”

He nodded and made his way out of their room. He looked around to make sure no one was paying him any attention and quietly made his way outside. The Frenchman had his back to him, which was good. Sherlock quietly reholstered the gun; there would be no need for it. He came behind the man and then turned him around and pinned him to the wall, arm to the throat. “ _Qui es-tu_?” he asked.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise for just a moment before narrowing. “ _Ça ne vous concerne pas_.”

Sherlock tightened the pressure on his throat and the man began to have trouble breathing. “ _J’en fais mon affaire_ ,” he said, his voice low.

“St…stop,” the man got out.

Sherlock eased his grip. He knew the man knew English but it seemed best to converse in French. “ _Êtes-vous connecté à les contrebandiers sur Torquay_?” he asked.

The man appeared to consider whether he truly wanted to answer, and then after a moment he sighed. “ _Oui. Mon cousin et moi cachons les marchandises dans notre ferme_.”

“ _Qui vous les livre_?” Sherlock asked.

“ _Le mécanicien. Celui qui a été assassiné. Nous avons obtenu de nouvelles commandes ce matin_.” Sherlock moved away from him, and the man’s posture sagged. “ _Nous ne voulons pas mourir, Monsieur Holmes. Nous voulions juste nous faire assez d'argent pour pouvoir vivre aisément_.”

So. These two were not the brains behind the operation. But the brains behind the operation was tying up loose ends, it seemed, which meant two things: the person in charge was a local to the village, and he needed to act fast. “ _Ne quittez pas le village. Je sais à quoi vous et votre cousin ressemblez, et je suis sûr que je peux facilement obtenir vos noms. Vous allez devoir payer pour vos crimes. Mais je vous promets, je vais faire de mon mieux pour vous garder en vie_.”

The man nodded. “ _Merci_ ,” he said.

 _He won’t be so grateful once he’s in prison,_ Sherlock thought to himself. He looked down at the man. “ _Vous êtes un idiot pour parler devant ma fenêtre, vous savez. Un imbécile de classe mondiale_.”

“ _On nous a dit d'être ici. Nous nous sommes toujours rencontré ici_ ,” the man said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Now, _this_ was an interesting development. Why make the inn the regular meeting place. “ _Est-ce que les propriétaires de l'auberge sont impliqués_?” he asked. He sincerely hoped they weren’t, as Molly seemed to think they were good people.

The man shook his head. “ _Non, mais la personne qui effectue l'entretien nous a aidé à livrer les marchandises sur notre ferme_.”

“Name?” Sherlock said, lapsing back into English.

“Simmons,” the man replied. “Cess Simmons.”

Sherlock nodded and then waved the man off. He scurried away from the inn’s outer wall and Sherlock made his way back inside, looking for the owners. He didn’t see them right off the bat, but he made a note to look for them soon. He went back up to his room and saw Molly by the window, looking down. “Enjoying the conversation?” he asked.

“You should speak French more often, Sherlock,” she said. “I forget how much I enjoy hearing you speak it.” She came over to him. “Do you remember, when John told you you should try and recite poetry every once in a while, you went out and got a book of French romantic poetry and you’d leave me a voicemail with one every day for a month?”

He nodded. “You never said anything about them so I stopped,” he said.

“I saved them all and transferred them over to my iPod,” she said with a smile. “I have thirty files of you speaking French poetry to listen to whenever I want.”

“If you had told me you enjoyed it, I would have left more,” he said, reaching for her when she was close enough.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have wanted to do it,” she said.

He tilted her head up so she was looking at him. “Molly, if something makes you happy I want to do it,” he said. “I want to make you smile. I like to make you laugh. I enjoy making you happy.”

“Well, then maybe you could say something to me in French?” she asked. “I’ll always love it when you speak to me in French.”

He ran his thumb on her cheek as he looked down at her. He decided to just say what came to him, the words that were in his heart. “ _Alors épouse-moi_ ,” he said quietly. “ _Épouse-moi et je te parlerai en français aussi souvent que tu le souhaites. Je te dirai, Ô, combien je t'aime, Ô, combien j’ai besoin de toi dans ma vie. Je te dirai que tu es mon monde, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, et à quel point je ne peux plus vivre sans toi. Et quand tu seras fatigué de la langue française, je te le dirai une fois de plus dans la langue que tu voudras._ ”

She didn’t respond and he was almost worried he’d said it all for nothing and then a wide smile blossomed on her face. “ _Oui_ ,” she said before leaning in and kissing him. She pulled away after a moment. “ _Oui, je veux t’épouser. Bien sûr, je vais t’épouser._ ” Then she leaned in and kissed him again, more deeply this time, and he kissed her back, so thankful she had said yes. Then she pulled away and threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her up off the ground in response and twirled her around as she laughed. When he finally set her back on her feet she looked up at him. “I like that proposal _much_ more than the other one.”

“I’m just sorry I don’t have a ring,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she said, moving her hands up to frame his face. “I’m sure you’ll get something very nice when we get back to London…whenever that is.”

“Soon, I hope,” he said. He moved his hands to her waist. “But at the moment I want to do nothing more than to keep you as close as I can.”

“And do some very naughty things, maybe?” she suggested with a grin.

“I like that idea very much,” he murmured before kissing her again. Even though there was work to be done on the case and a potential threat to be worried about, for the moment he wanted to celebrate the fact that Molly wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. That was, by far, the most important thing on his mind right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **QUOTES:**  
> 
>  _“Poirot here arrives at Devon. Pourquoi?” “Because there’s something amiss. I think someone is about to die.”_ **\- Poirot**
> 
>  _“Why do you think you can just run off on your own?” “Because I’m carrying a gun!”_ **\- Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries**
> 
> ** TRANSLATIONS: **   
>  _ (These were for the old French translations used...I do not have translations for the edited French, but this will give you an idea of what the conversations are) _
> 
> **Pourquoi est-il dans le Hatherleigh? -** _Why is he in Hatherleigh?_  
>  **Je ne sais pas. Le plus tôt il laisse, cependant, le mieux. -** _I don't know. The sooner he leaves, though, the better._  
>  **Devrions-nous être inquiets? -** _Should we be worried?_  
>  **Pas pour le moment. Mais nous avons besoin de Sherlock Holmes et son épouse sortir d'ici rapidement, avant qu'ils ne gênent plus. Si elles le font, nous devons prendre des mesures. -** _Not at the moment. But we need to get Sherlock Holmes and his wife out of here quickly, before they interfere anymore. If they do, we'll need to take steps._  
>  **Qui es-tu? -** _Who are you?_  
>  **Ça ne vous concerne pas. -** _None of your business._  
>  **Je fais mon affaire. -** _I'm making it my business._  
>  **Êtes-vous connecté à l'anneau de contrebande à Torquay? -** _Are you connected to the smuggling ring in Torquay?_  
>  **Oui. Mon cousin et moi cachent les marchandises sur notre ferme. -** _Yes. My cousin and I hide the goods on our farm._  
>  **Qui les amène à vous? -** _Who brings them to you?_  
>  **Le mécanicien a fait. Celui qui a été assassiné. Nous avons obtenu de nouvelles commandes, ce matin. Nous ne voulons pas mourir, Monsieur Holmes. Nous voulions juste faire assez d'argent pour vivre confortablement. -** _The mechanic did. The one who was murdered. We got new orders this morning. We don't want to die, Mr. Holmes. We just wanted to make enough money to live comfortably._  
>  **Ne pas quitter le village. Je sais ce que vous et votre cousin ressemblez, et je suis sûr que je peux facilement obtenir vos noms. Vous allez payer pour vos crimes. Mais je ne vous promets, je vais faire de mon mieux pour vous garder en vie. -** _Don’t leave the village. I know what you and your cousin look like, and I’m sure I can easily get your names. You will pay for your crimes. But I do promise, I will do my best to keep you alive._  
>  **Merci. -** _Thank you._  
>  **Vous êtes un idiot pour parler devant ma fenêtre, vous savez. Un imbécile de classe mondiale. -** _You're an idiot for speaking outside my window, you know. A world class imbecile._  
>  **On nous a dit d'être ici. Nous avons toujours rencontré ici. -** _We were told to be here. We always met here._  
>  **Sont les propriétaires de l'auberge impliqués? -** _Are the proprieters of the inn involved?_  
>  **Non, mais la personne qui effectue l'entretien, il a aidé à livrer les marchandises à notre ferme. -** _No, but the person who performs maintenance, he helped deliver the goods to our farm._  
>  **Puis me marier. Épouse-moi et je vais vous parler en français aussi souvent que vous le souhaitez. Je vais vous dire combien Je t'aime, combien je besoin de vous. Je vais vous dire que vous êtes mon monde, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, et je ne veux plus jamais vivre sans toi. Et quand vous êtes fatigués de la langue française, je vais le faire une fois de plus dans une autre langue que vous souhaitez. -** _Then marry me. Marry me and I will speak to you in French as often as you like. I will tell you how much I love you, how much I need you. I will tell you that you are my world, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, and I don't ever want to be without you. And when you get tired of French, I'll do it all over again in any other language you would like._  
>  **Oui. Oui, je vais vous épouser. Bien sûr, je vais vous épouser. -** _Yes. Yes, I'll marry you. Of course I'll marry you._


	4. Chapter 4

He had reluctantly pulled himself from the bed some time later when there was a knock at the door. He was partially dressed, having put his pants on and his trousers mostly on, and so he finished putting on his trousers and threw a shirt on, while Molly pulled the sheet up to cover herself more. He opened the door and saw Sergeant Jones there. “Can I help you?”

“I managed to get a rather garbled phone call from a Detective Inspector Lestrange from Scotland Yard,” he said. “He said a micro homes something or other had tracked you down here and we were to offer any assistance needed in your case?”

“That would be DI Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, my brother,” Sherlock said. “Give us a few moments to get presentable.”

Sergeant Jones’s eyes widened as he looked behind Sherlock at Molly. “So it isn’t all an act?” he asked as Molly gave him a slight wave from the bed.

“Only in that Molly is my fiancée and not my wife,” Sherlock said, smiling slightly despite the circumstances. He was actually quite pleased to publicly acknowledge that he was in a relationship with Molly and she was going to marry him. “But for appearances sake, let’s keep that between us, shall we?”

The younger man nodded and Sherlock shut the door in his face before turning the Molly, who let the sheet drop as she stretched. Sherlock licked his lips slightly as he appreciated the view of her naked from the waist up, and he made his way to the bed to join her again. “Is this going to make things harder?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “It depends on how well our Sergeant Jones can keep a secret.” He leaned over and tipped her chin up. “But if it comes down to it we could always try and have rules bent and get married immediately. I’m sure there’s some parish priest nearby who can keep it a secret.”

Molly chuckled and leaned in to kiss him softly. “You’re incorrigible, Sherlock,” she said when she pulled away.

“Only with you.” She pulled away even more and he watched her move to where her clothing was as she began to get dressed. He finished getting dressed, and when he and Molly were both presentable he opened the door again for the sergeant. Sergeant Jones came in and stood near the bed as Sherlock moved the side chair in front of it, and then he sat down when Sherlock joined Molly on the bed. “Did you know a young man named Russell Cameron?”

Sergeant Jones nodded. “Not very well, mind you. He showed up for market day about six months ago. Went to go work on the Bader farm with Stephen and Alfred.” He scratched his chin for a moment. “Come to think of it, he wasn’t with them at the market this week.”

“That’s because he was at Barts Hospital’s morgue,” Sherlock said. “He’d been shot and killed in London last weekend. We’d been unable to reach anyone, so while Molly and I were on our way to Torquay to investigate a related matter we thought we’d nose around here.”

“Were you going to tell me about Russell’s death at any point?” Sergeant Jones asked.

“After I had made a few discreet inquiries,” Sherlock said.

“Not to be blunt, but you didn’t seem to be in a hurry to make inquiries,” the sergeant replied.

“I only just agreed to marry him,” Molly said, looking slightly annoyed. “Not that it’s any of your business. I insisted we celebrate. He was leaving to start asking around as you showed up.”

Red colouring dotted the young man’s cheeks. “Oh,” he said quietly. He looked slightly embarrassed. “Look, I…well, a man is dead, it’s my job to find out how it happened, seems pretty straightforward to me, you know. If this is going to get figured out, I actually have to work on it and not get surprises pulled on me.”

Molly’s expression softened. “Then let’s work together, all right? With the three of us working on this, we can crack both murders, I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can do that,” he said. “But first I need to know everything about a Frenchman and his cousin.”

“Those would be the Baders,” Sergeant Jones said. “Stephen’s been here much longer than Alfred. To be honest, I don’t even think Alfred is his real name. I think it’s Alphonse or something French.” He tilted his head. “Why do you want to know about them?”

“Because they had a very interesting conversation outside our window a few hours ago,” Sherlock said. “They consider Molly and I a possible threat, and they’re involved in the smuggling ring that is tied into Russell’s murder.”

“Smuggling ring?” Sergeant Jones asked, his brow furrowing.

Molly looked over at Sherlock. “You should really start from the beginning. I’ll make us all some tea.” 

Sherlock nodded and began to launch into the details of the case, for both Molly and Sergeant Jones’s benefit, as Molly began to prepare tea for them. After a bit he realized he was hungry and he went for the bag Molly had brought in with her earlier, finding some baked goods in there. They were no longer warm but they still smelled good, and he ate as he spoke. By the time the tea was being served he had gotten to the end of what he knew and Sergeant Jones began filling them in on everything he knew about the Bader cousins.

Nearly an hour had passed when he was done. Sergeant Jones leaned back in his seat and ran a hand over his face. “I feel like I’m in over my bloody head,” he said, his eyes wide.

“Well, Molly and I are more than happy to help,” Sherlock said, finishing his second cup of tea. “It seems as though we’ll get more answers here in Hatherleigh than we would going on to Torquay. I just wish there was a way I could get word to Lestrade. He needs to know there was another death”

“We’re still working on getting communications back up,” Sergeant Jones replied. “As soon as I get something reliable I’ll send word out. What do you want me to tell him?”

“That we might need his presence, and we need the resources of a full team here,” he said.

“Well, that I can get without having to call to London, but the first hinges on getting communications back up,” the sergeant said with a sigh. He stood up. “It looks like it might be at least twenty-four hours until the landlines are fixed.”

“Keep us posted,” Sherlock said.

Sergeant Jones nodded. He went to the door and then paused. “For future reference, we work as a team,” he said. “You get any leads or come up with any brilliant theories, share them with me. I have no idea who it is who could be doing this, but I just want them stopped before anyone else dies.”

“We will keep you informed,” Sherlock said with a nod. Sergeant Jones let himself out of the room and then Sherlock turned to Molly. “I think I need to have a talk with Cess Simmons at some point. And I may want to have another chat with Alfred Bader.”

Molly put her hand on his arm. “Just be careful, all right?” she said, a tinge of worry in her voice. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. One of them could be the murderer.”

“I would simply remind you that, in my experience, it is nearly always the obvious person,” Sherlock replied. “Or at least obvious to me. And at the moment, neither of them seems quite obvious since I don’t have all the information.”

“Just…don’t get hurt,” she said.

He leaned in, kissing her softly. “I promise I won’t,” he said against her lips when he pulled away a few moments later. He would keep that promise, too, to the best of his ability. It would do neither of them nor their future together any good if something happened to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Well, a girl is dead, it’s my job to find out how it happened, seems pretty straightforward to me.”_ **\- Foyle’s War**
> 
>  _“For future reference, we work as a team.”_ **\- New Tricks**
> 
>  _“I would simply remind you that, in my experience, it is nearly always the obvious person.”_ **\- Agatha Christie’s Marple**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock accompanied Molly to the quiz bowl at the Tally Ho at five pm, mostly to get a read on the locals. It was a more somber mood than he had supposed it should have been, but once the alcohol started flowing he supposed it would either perk up or there would be a punch-up. He wasn’t sure which; it depended on how well liked the newest victim was amongst his fellow villagers. 

The fact that Molly had made acquaintances among them earlier was worth its weight in gold, however. She was friendly enough with people, so he was able to ask discreet questions without raising too much suspicion, and of course in a village this size and with his reputation everyone was curious as to what his involvement in the case was, which was beneficial to him. He found it quite easy to gather the information he needed. 

He was seated at a table with Tommy and another upstanding member of the community, the librarian Eleanor Fluke. She was a bit of a gossip, which was a good thing, as she was giving him all the local information on the various people in the village. He, however, had his eye on Cess Simmons when he wasn’t paying attention to Molly and her rather good success with the questions. Simmons was a stocky man with a red face and thinning ginger hair, who looked rather disagreeable and sour faced. He was sitting at the bar nursing a pint, trying hard to keep to himself as he ate what appeared to be his evening meal.

A round of applause pulled Sherlock back to the tournament and he picked up the pint he’d been forcing himself to take occasional sips of. The mayor of the village, Arthur Raskin, had been the one asking the questions, and he supposed it was time to move to another category now. He flipped his cards and cleared his throat. “And now, the topic is ‘Television Shows from Acorn Media.’”

“It’s rigged!” a man from the opposing team called out. “There’s been too many entertainment questions.”

“Don’t worry, James, the next set of questions are footie ones,” Arthur said soothingly. Sherlock hid a smile. If he thought he’d get any relief from Molly in those he was sorely mistaken. Sherlock had had no idea how obsessed with the sport his fiancee was before they started dating and was amazed at the wealth of knowledge she had about the history of the sport and the rosters of many of the current teams. She said it had been her father’s favourite thing to talk about when he was ill and that it was something that just stuck after he passed. “All right. Question number one. In the Miss Marple episode ‘Murder Is Easy,’ what is the name of the young detective who assists Mi--?”

Molly had her hand on the buzzer before the man finished the question. “Luke Fitzwilliam,” she said smugly, casting a glance at Sherlock, who shook his head. She had been amused by the fact that the actor who played the character had a passing resemblance to him. _He_ couldn’t see it, of course, but _she_ could, and so she declared it her favourite Marple episode.

“Correct,” Arthur said. “Next question. Complete this quote from Life In Mars: ‘I had an accident, and I woke up _____ in the past.’”

One of the men on the opposite team hit his buzzer. “Thirty-five years,” he said.

“Incorrect,” Arthur replied.

Maggie hit her buzzer. “The quote is actually ‘I had an accident, and I woke up thirty-three years in the past,’ she said with a smug smile on her face. “John Simms said it, you know damn well I remembered it.”

“Correct,” Arthur said, eliciting a groan from the opposite team. Molly leaned over and gave Maggie a high five for that. “Next question: what episode of Poirot had both Sean Pertwee & Zoe Wanamaker in it?”

One of the women on the opposite team buzzed in. “’Dead Man’s Folly’?” she said a bit hesitantly.

“Correct,” Arthur said with a nod. The opposite team cheered, and Molly pouted slightly. “Next question. As of 2011 there have been 200 murders on Midsomer Murders, including twelve from poisoning , including one from a tropical frog, nine drownings, six people burned to death and how many villagers killed by bow and arrow?”

Molly slammed the buzzer down while everyone else looked mildly disturbed by the question. “Four,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think in the years since there’s been more, though don’t quote me on that.”

“How on _earth_ do you know that?” Maggie asked.

“Well, it happens to be one of the few fictional shows my husband likes,” she said. “Also, I’m a pathologist. Tidbits about unique causes of death stick out for me.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, glad you knew that particular bit of knowledge.” She turned to Arthur. “Is this the last question of the round coming up?”

He nodded. “Last one. In Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, Miss Fisher has a unique firearm that was _not_ manufactured in the 1920s. In what year was it actually manufactured?”

Sherlock was only half listening as he realized that Simmons had finished his meal and his pint and was getting up to leave. He knew that he needed to confront him, and the best time to do it would be when most of the village was preoccupied with the quiz bowl. He waited for Simmons to pay for his meal and leave the pub, and Sherlock got up to follow him. He stayed back a ways, following Simmons back to the inn where he was staying, and waiting for a moment outside the door of the lodgings he kept away from where the guests slept.

He hadn’t done a good enough job, though, he realised when he heard the cock of a shotgun from the doorway. “Show yourself,” Simmons said.

Sherlock stepped out into the light from the outside of Simmons’s abode. “I simply want to talk,” Sherlock said. “I need to know about your involvement with the Baders.” He kept his eye on the shotgun that was trained on him. “Two men are dead and you are involved, and it’s going to come to light. I can help you if you tell me what your involvement is.”

“You have no idea who I am, and you never will,” Simmons said, his finger on the trigger. Sherlock acted then, knocking the gun out of his hands rather easily because Simmons hadn’t expected him to fight back. Once he was over his shock, though, Simmons swung at him, clipping him under the eye. The hit had some weight behind it and Sherlock felt his head snap to the side. He recovered quickly and put the skills he had picked up over the years to good use, delivering a pummeling to Simmons to knock him down to the ground. Once it was obvious that Sherlock was the victor, he stood over Simmons, trying to catch his breath. “Now then, Simmons--” But before he could say anything else he felt something impact with the back of his skull and he fell to the ground. Before he lost consciousness he swore he heard one snippet of conversation, and then his world went black.

The next thing he knew he was awake with a throbbing headache, in his bed at the inn with Molly sitting by his side, tending to his wounds. He had considerably more than he’d taken from just his scuffle with Simmons; whoever had taken him out of the equation temporarily had used the opportunity to rough him up. “You’re awake,” she said, sounding partly relieved with just a hint of anger in the background. He got the feeling he was in for a verbal lashing later.

“Yes,” he said, wincing at how bright the light in the room was even though there was barely any. It was only then he realized Sergeant Jones was there as well. “What happened?”

“Cess Simmons is dead,” Sergeant Jones said quietly. “Mr. Holmes, why did you go off on your own? We’re supposed to be working _together_ on this.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Molly said, looking tightlipped.

“I thought I might get more answers if I went on my own,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “Evidently my gamble didn’t pay off.”

“You were nearly killed,” Molly said, her voice quiet. “I could have lost you.”

“But you didn’t,” Sherlock said.

“But I _could_ have,” he replied.

Sergeant Jones looked at the scene awkwardly. “Perhaps I should give you two some privacy, ma’am,” he said.

“Don’t call me ma’am, I’m not the bloody queen,” Molly snapped, and then she sighed. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry. No, I know Sherlock. He’ll want to work the case, so...we should work the case.”

Sergeant Jones looked at them skeptically. “Did you see or hear anything that might help?” he asked Sherlock. “Because the shotgun that killed him was wiped of prints, and there were no useable footprints or fingerprints at the scene.”

“Just before everything went dark, I heard Simmons and his murderer speak,” Sherlock said. “The conversation went ‘You know what’s gonna happen now?’ with Simmons replying ‘Yeah, I know exactly what’s gonna happen now,’ as though he knew something was imminent.” He was quiet for a moment. “How long between my going missing and you finding me was it that Simmons was killed?”

“We don’t have an exact time, but the rough estimate was he’d only been dead a matter of less than an hour,” Sergeant Jones said, looking at his notes.

“And what time is it now?” Sherlock asked.

Molly looked at the watch on her wrist. “Nearly ten. We found you at half past eight.”

“They had to have spoken. Something Simmons said had to have spooked the killer.” He tried to sit up but Molly rather forcibly pushed him back down on the bed. “The killer is either getting reckless or he’s tying up loose ends. I _need_ to get a message to Lestrade.”

“Communications might be up in the morning,” Sergeant Jones said.

“I hope it won’t be too late,” Sherlock said.

Sergeant Jones nodded. “Meantime, stay here unless I’m with you. You’re in danger, Mr. Holmes. The killer might try and finish the job, and we wouldn't want that.” He nodded to the two of them. “Have a good evening.” With that, he left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

“Molly...” he said quietly.

“If you ever do anything so foolhardy again and it gets you killed, so help me, I’ll find a way of resurrecting you and then killing you again in an endless cycle so you can see how foolish you are,” she said, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. “I just agreed to spend the rest of my life with you and I nearly lost you, you bloody moron!”

“I am sorry,” he said. “Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She sniffed slightly. “When I got there and I saw you weren’t moving and...and Cess Simmons was dead I panicked. I thought you were dead too. And then Sergeant Jones said you were breathing and I just let out the largest sigh of relief and...you bloody _terrified_ me, Sherlock, and I don’t know if I can forget that.”

He carefully moved his arms around her and pulled her close against him on the bed. “I can’t always guarantee that I won’t do dangerous things, Molly. It’s in the nature of what I do. But I can guarantee that I will always do my best from now on to minimize the worst of what can happen, and that I will always do my best to come home to you in one piece, safe and sound. Alright?”

She nodded. “Alright.” She shifted slightly, setting her head over his heart and her palm on his chest. “How do you know exactly what to do to get out of trouble, Sherlock?”

“Sometimes these things just…come to me,” he said, relaxing. She wasn’t angry with him. This was good. He didn’t want her angry with him. He didn’t think he could handle that on top of the case hitting such a massive roadblock. He shut his eyes and tried to drift back to sleep. It might not be best, but that was what he wanted to do right now. In the morning he would look at the case from a fresh perspective, see if there was anything else he could glean from what he knew, and pray no more dead bodies popped up in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I had an accident, and I woke up thirty-three years in the past.”_ **\- Life On Mars**
> 
>  _“You have no idea who I am, and you never will.”_ **\- The Fall**
> 
>  _“You know what’s gonna happen now?” “Yeah, I know exactly what’s gonna happen now.”_ **\- Jack Taylor**
> 
>  _“Don’t call me ma’am, I’m not the bloody queen.”_ **\- Prime Suspect**
> 
>  _“Sometimes these things just…come to me.”_ **\- Murdoch Mysteries**
> 
>  *** Missing Quiz Answer** From IMDB: _"Although the producers have obviously gone to some trouble to use period firearms suited to the 1920s era, nevertheless Miss Fishers trademark revolver is a Chiefs Special model that was introduced in America on 1950. Similar American revolvers by Smith & Wesson from the 20s era were distinctly different on appearance."_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a dull headache and sore muscles, but otherwise was no worse the wear than he had been other times he had been in similar positions. He wasn’t about to share those sentiments with Molly, however; the fact she had been so upset that he could have died had convinced him that, perhaps, when they returned to London he needed to seriously reevaluate his position on the more dangerous aspects of his career. He glanced down at his side and saw she hadn’t bothered to change into her nightclothes, falling asleep next to him exactly where he had pulled her before he went back to sleep, still in the clothes she had worn the evening before.

His mind drifted back to when she had been taken by Moriarty, to when he had thought he had lost her over a year ago, and his grip on her tightened. He knew how she must have felt, in some small measure, but she hadn’t put herself in that position. He had chosen to follow Simmons and he had engaged him and he had not chosen to take anyone with him or tell anyone what he was doing. If he had been killed last night, it would have been solely his own fault.

And he wondered at that. _Why_ had he not been killed? Clearly he could have been; there was time between when he was knocked out and when Simmons was killed for the murderer to take care of another loose end, a new potential threat. And as per the conversation the Baders had had, that was what he was: a threat. So why had he been spared? That was certainly a question that should be answered.

There was a knock at the door and he gingerly untangled himself from Molly, being careful not to wake her, and then went to answer it. Standing on the other side of the door was Sergeant Jones. His eyes widened when he saw him and Sherlock knew he must look a fright. Sergeant Jones recovered quickly, though, and then handed Sherlock some papers. “When your fiancee wakes up, we’d like her to do an examination of the body. Our local pathologist is nursing a bit of a hangover at the moment and was dead drunk last night. Couldn’t rouse him. But this is what we managed to get with the small forensics team we have in the area. We got one useable footprint, and it belongs to a woman.”

Sherlock flipped through the papers, reading them quickly the way he always did, and then he stopped when he saw where he had been found. “That wasn’t where I was attacked,” he said slowly.

“Oh?” Sergeant Jones said. “Well, unfortunately the facts appear to suggest otherwise.”

“But I know that wasn’t where I fell,” Sherlock said. He pointed to the part where it said he was found on the front stoop of the inn. “I was outside Simmons’s residence, which is at the back of the inn. Someone carried me to the front stoop.”

Sergeant Jones took the papers back and skimmed over them again, paying closer attention to them. “Then...that _might_ explain the one footprint that was a mystery,” he said slowly. “Forensics was going to check all of Pamela’s shoes but the assumption was it belonged to her, as the size is roughly the same.”

“Assumptions make for shoddy police work,” Sherlock said.

“Which is why I’m having them check the shoes,” Sergeant Jones said, a slight edge to his voice. “But it was by where you were lying in a heap, with a drop of blood nearby.”

“I didn’t mean to imply _you_ were the one doing the shoddy police work,” Sherlock said in a conciliatory tone.

“Oh,” Sergeant Jones said. “There must be dozens of women in the village who have the same shoe size, though.”

“Were most of them at Tally Ho for the quiz bowl?” Sherlock asked.

Sergeant Jones nodded. “A fair number of them, I’d wager. The pub was packed to the rafters.”

“Then it’s a matter of figuring out who wasn’t there and looking into where they were. Getting a chance to examine their shoes will be the trickier part.”

Sergeant Jones nodded, and then his eyes widened and he groaned. “I think I may be cracking up,” he said. “I mean, if I actually believe the rubbish said about her and all.”

“You’ve lost me,” Sherlock said, his voice confused.

“There’s a woman here on the outskirts of the village, Miranda Juster. Claims to have ‘the gift’ or some hogwash like that. Told me last week some dark times were coming and I should be prepared. And she’d be strong enough to carry you from the cottage all the way to the front of the inn.” He rubbed his chin slightly. “And if I remember correctly, her feet might just be about the same size as Pamela’s.”

“Where can we find her?” Sherlock asked.

“Out near the obelisk,” Sergeant Jones said. “It’s supposed to be special to her.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose you want to come out with me when I question her as to why she decided to remove me from what could have been the scene of my demise?”

“Well, much as I would like to, I have to go back to the crime scene,” Sergeant Jones said. “But make sure you tell me everything she says. And I do mean _everything_ , Mr. Holmes. Don’t keep any more secrets.”

“Understood,” he said with another nod. Sergeant Jones handed him the papers back and then turned and left the room. Sherlock set them on the vanity and went back to the bed in time to see Molly begin to stir. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, looking at him. She brushed back her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Did you sleep well?”

“With you by my side, yes,” he said. He ran a hand down her arm gently. “There’s been a development in the case. Apparently where I was found was not where I was knocked out, and Sergeant Jones believes there was a woman in the village who is a so-called psychic who may have carried me to the front stoop and in doing so saved my life. We have his permission to speak to her so long as we don’t withhold information from him.”

She nodded slightly. “Then we should do it as soon as possible, I think. After we eat breakfast, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. She reached over and gripped the lapels of his shirt, pulling him a little closer. “Perhaps after a kiss as well?”

“I think that could be arranged,” he said, leaning in and pressing his lips against hers for a soft kiss. It quickly became more passionate, and he had the feeling that breakfast and the interview might end up being postponed a bit. But he wouldn’t mind either of those things being postponed in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Well unfortunately the facts appear to suggest otherwise.”_ **\- Foyle’s War**
> 
>  _“I think I may be cracking up.”_ **\- Fortysomething**


	7. Chapter 7

They had managed to make it to the dining area towards the end of the breakfast hour, and Pamela took pity on them, assuming it was because of Sherlock’s sorry state since he had been beaten up the night before. She mothered him and told him everything she had gleaned from listening to the coppers who had been around the cottage and traipsing in and out of the inn the evening before and all that morning. It had actually been quite helpful as Sergeant Jones had only told him what as in the official reports and lower level coppers were notorious gossips if you gave them coffee and food. Slowly he gathered that Cess had been found near the front of the inn, not far from where he himself had been found, and it had ben theorized before he had corrected Sergeant Jones, that he and Cess had stopped an attempted robbery of the inn. Now, of course, it was quite obvious the situation was different.

It also appeared that communications, though still quite shoddy, were back up, and Sergeant Jones was attempting to relay a message to Scotland Yard for Sherlock. The mobile network was still down so after he and Molly went to meet with Miranda he knew he would need to pay a visit to Sergeant Jones at police headquarters to see it he could put an addendum to the message with whatever he found out, if Lestrade hadn’t already left London to head to Hatherleigh. He wouldn’t put that past the Detective Inspector, and to be quite honest, he wouldn’t mind the extra muscle. Not that he thought that Sergeant Jones was incompetent, but a seasoned police officer could be a great help. Even he was beginning to feel just a bit out of his depth in this situation, which was saying something. It had been some time since he’d been beaten and targeted this way, and he didn’t like the fact that Molly could be at risk as well.

When breakfast was over he asked Pamela for directions to the obelisk that Sergeant Jones had mentioned. She gave them to him, and he found out it was a bit of a walk from the inn. Not _too_ far, and thankfully the weather had cleared up well enough, but he was sore and not looking forward to the trek. But this needed to be done for the sake of the investigation. Molly let him set the pace, staying close if he needed to lean on her and resting as often as he needed to. Eventually, they made it to the obelisk, a fifty foot tall white stone monument on a small green hill, dedicated to William Morris, that overlooked the Hatherleigh Moor, and then turned away from it and made their way to Miranda’s cottage nearby. It did not look any different than any typical cottage in more rural places in England, nothing made it seem as though it belonged to a so-called psychic, and Sherlock and Molly were not entirely sure they were at the right place.

While they were hesitating outside the gate, a tall, big-boned woman came out of the home, her greying hair pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. “Glad to see the bastard didn’t finish you off, Mr. Holmes,” Miranda said, wiping her hands on the checkered apron she had tied around her waist. “Would have been a waste of a brilliant mind.” She nodded towards the cabin. “Don’t lollygag outside the gate. Come in. I imagine you have questions.”

Molly moved forward first, unlatching the gate and waiting for Sherlock to walk in first. She followed, closing the gate first, and it took a moment but Sherlock heard a sound he recognized as they got closer. He veered away from the walkway and went to the side of the cottage that they hadn’t approached, and after a moment Molly and Miranda joined him as he stared with a smile. “You keep bees,” he said.

Miranda nodded. “I don’t make much money telling fortunes,” she said. “The honey and honeycomb keeps me going in the lean times when my normal lifestyle fails me.”

“What do you do?” Molly asked.

“I live off my wits, gamble, drink…” Miranda replied. “My gift is more a burden than a help. I’m more like Cassandra from ancient Greece than anyone should be.”

“No one believes you?” Sherlock asked.

Miranda nodded. “Not only that, I rarely have good news to give. It’s almost always doom and gloom. The few times there has been happy tidings, there’s nearly always been a catch.” She sighed. “I wish I could be the bearer of good news, but it’s not my job to make people happy, pet. It’s my job to tell them the future as it’s to come, warts and all. And no matter how often what I say comes true, everyone doubts me. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I’m sorry,” Molly said.

“However, the one thing I am good at is being on good terms with nature,” Miranda said. “It seems to be the flip side of my gift. Being so intimate with the doom and gloom, the bright side is nature bends over backward to be there for me. I do especially well with the horses at foaling time. Give me a chance to get close to them and I can always tell who the best bets will be. However, I use that gift sparingly, of course. And occasionally I’ll spread the good fortune to those who deserve it. Good karma never hurts.”

“And was it good karma that caused you to save my life last night?” Sherlock asked.

“Good karma and good sense,” Miranda said. “The Baders are bad news and will bring nothing but trouble to this village. Already three men are dead, and while I couldn’t save Cess, rest his soul, I could at least save you before that Frenchmen realized you weren’t dead. I needed to get you out of there but the twinge in my back could only get you to the front door instead of all the way inside.”

“Well, someone tried to make the scene look entirely different,” Sherlock said.

“Wasn’t my doing,” Miranda said, pursing her lips. “But the French one...I don’t think he’s all he seems.” She looked over at Molly. “He’s a skeptic, your fiancée, but you aren’t. You’ll believe me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at that. As far as he knew, there was only one person in the entire village who was aware that Molly was merely his fiancée and not his wife. “How did you…?” he asked.

“There’s more to him than meets the eye,” Miranda said, her voice sounding oddly different and her eyes glazing over slightly as she took Molly’s hands in hers. “He’s a very dangerous man who will try to kill again before night’s end. Be prepared to wield iron against him to save that which you care for most.” She blinked then, and then patted Molly’s hand with hers. “Hopefully, you’ll be smarter than ninety-nine percent of the people here and heed my words, girl.”

“I think I will,” Molly said, her eyes slightly wide as she turned to Sherlock. He looked back, surprised. He wasn’t sure what had happened, whether it was poppycock or not, but there was no harm in heeding the woman’s words, he supposed.

“Now then,” Miranda said. “I imagine after your beating you need a rest. Come in, relax for a bit, get something cool to drink and some sustenance, and I’ll drive the two of you back to the village. I have supplies to pick up anyway. And perhaps I can give you a jar or two of honey, just because I think you might appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said with a nod. “The food and drink and rest would be most appreciated.” Miranda led the way into the cottage and he and Molly followed. This encounter had been quite peculiar but as he owed the woman his life, he wasn’t about to question it too much. He would wait to see how true her words were, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“What do you do?” “I live off my wits, gamble, drink…”_ **\- Jack Irish**
> 
>  _“It’s not my job to make people happy, pet.”_ **\- Vera**


	8. Chapter 8

Miranda drove them to the police headquarters but did not enter with them, saying she had said her piece to Sergeant Jones and she doubted he would believe her anyway. Sherlock had an inkling of how village policing worked and that she would be wrapped up in all of this whether she wanted to be or not, but, for now, she could be left in peace. He and Molly entered the building to hear an argument brewing.

“I need to see identification,” a constable was saying, her tone crisp and a glare on her face. Sherlock _almost_ felt bad for her when he saw who she was arguing with.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. You’ve just been outranked,” Lestrade snapped, his voice frustrated.

“Greg!” Molly said from behind him, and he whirled around to look at the two of them. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Sherlock.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said, he said, leaving the constable to stare open-mouthed and coming to his two friends. “What happened to you?”

“I was on the wrong end of a beatdown,” Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably. Really, he simply wanted to lie down for a time. Between the walking and standing and sitting, he was feeling quite worn out and very sore.

“ _Someone_ thought it would be a good idea to speak to a suspect without informing anyone,” Molly said, her tone still tight, as though she was still angry. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he would be entirely forgiven anytime soon. “He was only saved by the local fortuneteller, who dragged him away from the scene of another murder.”

“And it was the scene of a murder,” Sergeant Jones said, coming out from his office. He looked up and blinked at the new addition. “And you are…?”

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard,” he said, offering his hand. “I believe we spoke on the phone?”

“Oh, yes,” Sergeant Jones said, shaking his head. “You’ve come to take over.”

Lestrade nodded. “Well, at least on the smuggling aspect of things. The two local murders are your jurisdiction still. I’m to assist if I can.”

“Alfred did it, or Alphonse or whatever his name is,” Sherlock said. “According to Miranda, who doesn’t want to be brought into this any more than she needs to be. She says he’s more than he appears to be.”

Sergeant Jones scoffed. “You don’t believe her tripe, do you?” he asked.

Sherlock leaned in more. “She knew that Molly was my fiancée and not my wife,” he said so only the four of them could hear.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look. “Fia--?” he began. “What’s this?”

“Just agreed,” Molly said, giving him a mild glare. “And if you tell a soul among our friends I’ll throttle you, Greg. _I’m_ going to announce it, so help me.”

“Won’t say a word,” he said, his eyes wide. “But what’s this about you two being married?”

“Small lie to get us a room at the inn,” Sherlock said. “It was assumed we were already married so we ran with it. Chances are it will be spread around as soon as full communications are restored, we’ll have to do something about that, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is, it’s gotten us invaluble information about a certain set of cousins at a farm at the edge of town who are running our smuggling ring. One of the two of them are responsible for the murder of Russell Cameron. And if this Alfred or Alphonse is responsible for the murder of Cess Simmons, then I have no doubt he’s also responsible for the murder of Herbert Fitzwilliam as well. The question becomes, why murder him? His connection to the ring was to bring them goods, but why kill him all of a sudden?”

“I may be able to answer that with a bit of gossip I picked up,” Molly said. “Herbert was flaunting a bit more wealth than usual. Tommy wasn’t, so it wasn’t coming from the auto shop, and it started just about the time that Russell had come in and started helping at the farm. Eleanor said that she thought Russell had come because Herbert asked him too, and he was getting a cut of Russell’s earnings.”

“And if Russell was selling things off the side that should have been being smuggled out, then he was making money illicitly,” Sergeant Jones said. “If he was murdered for his part in going outside the ring, then Herbert had to be too.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said with a nod. “We need to get to the Bader farm and apprehend the culprits before they have a chance to flee. They will have realized by now I’m alive and well and should have put two and two together, so fleeing is their best option. If they get to Torquay it will not be hard for them to get out of the country and then to somewhere where they have no extradition treaty. Not even my brother could get to them, and he would be loathe to help in what he would consider a piddly country murder in any case.”

Lestrade shook his head. “You underestimate your brother,” he said. “But you have a point. They leave the country, it’s out of our hands and becomes INTERPOL’s problem.” He broke away from the group and went to the constable. “Get together a group of people who know their way around a gun and can cover the territory at the Bader farm.”

“Why?” she said, giving him a cross look.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “They’re the baddies and we’re the goodies,” he said, as though speaking to a child.

“She has issues with authority,” Sergeant Jones said, giving her a withering glance. “This will be written up in your disciplinary file, you know. And I’ll make sure it’s noted you sassed a Scotland Yard detective inspector when you want to transfer there. That _was_ your plan, right?”

She blanched at that and then swallowed hard. “I’ll get right on it, sir,” she said contritely.

“Do that,” Lestrade said. He turned back to Sherlock. “So I suppose now we wait?”

Sherlock nodded. “Now we wait, and hope we aren’t too late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Inspector Crabbe. You’ve just been outranked.”_ **\- Pie in the Sky**
> 
> _“They’re the baddies and we’re the goodies.”_ **\- New Tricks**


	9. Chapter 9

It was perhaps five hours later when a small contingent of policemen and policewomen had been rounded up from the area to go to the Bader farm with Sergeant Jones, Lestrade, Sherlock and Molly to apprehend the cousins. Sergeant Jones had tried his hardest to talk Sherlock and Molly into not going, but Lestrade had said that absolutely wasn’t going to work. In the meantime, Molly did the postmortem on Cess Simmons for Sergeant Jones and found nothing that gave them any clues to prove or disprove Miranda’s theory that it was Alfred Bader, so they were walking into the situation not entirely sure whether they were simply arresting two smugglers or a potential murderer, but they were treating it as the latter.

Sergeant Jones insisted that both Sherlock and Molly wear bulletproof vests. In the time since her kidnapping, Sherlock knew that DI Donovan had insisted Molly take training courses with her when she was able about how to enter situations like this, as Molly did occasionally accompany technicians to crime scenes, and her friend had been worried she would be caught unaware. Lestrade had pulled the strings to allow a civilian to attend the training, and he had been glad to see Molly had learned the lessons well, staying back where it was safe while the armed individuals infiltrated the property first, making sure it was safe. Sherlock himself was armed, though Sergeant Jones had raised an eyebrow at that and Lestrade had waved it off, and he was sticking close to her just in case.

However, it appeared it was for naught, as the property looked to be abandoned and they had arrived too late. It was frustrating because even without forensic evidence Sherlock was so _sure_ that Alfred Bader was the murderer. He did not often listen to his gut feelings, having felt for years that it was unreliable, but thoughts of the conversation between Cess and his murderer insisted that he was _sure_ the assailant was Alfred Bader with an impeccable English accent. If Miranda was right, and Alfred was not all he appeared, then he could be right and it wasn’t just a gut feeling. He had actually heard the evidence all on his own and his mind was trying to tell him he was right.

As the other officers and Sergeant Jones and Lestrade searched the premises, Molly and Sherlock concentrated on the main house on the property. He was _sure_ they had not left; Sergeant Jones said that no vehicles had been observed leaving the property once they had been considered suspects, though there had been no surveillance since the evening before, but the vehicle known to be owned by the Baders were still on the property. Sherlock had been searching upstairs while Molly had concentrated on the study and sitting room downstairs, and they had both gone into the kitchen to reconvene. “No sign of them?” Molly asked, opening a door that led into a well-stocked pantry.

Sherlock shook his head. “I did find the account book in what appeared to be Alfred’s bedroom, as well as the profit itself, which leads me to believe they are still on the premises. They made quite a hefty profit on their end of the smuggling ring, even with the skimming being done. The last deposit was quite substantial.”

“How much is it?” Molly asked.

“Two million, six hundred thirty-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-four,” he said.

Molly’s eyes widened. “Pounds?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Euro. It was already converted to send to France. In pounds that would be roughly...” He thought for a moment. “Two million, two hundred and twenty-seven pounds.”

“And it’s just sitting here upstairs?” she asked, her voice nearly a hiss.

He nodded. “Which makes me think they’re still here. They wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave it where it could be found, even if it wasn’t easily.” There was a creaking sound, and both Molly and Sherlock turned as a hidden panel swung open in the wall behind a cupboard. The two men who had been under their window stepped out, and the one who Sherlock had spoken to, the one who had pretended that he had been the poor, innocent victim in all of this, brandished a gun with a silencer on it and pointed it at Sherlock. “You must be the mastermind behind all of this, Alfred. Or is is Alphonse?”

“Neither,” he said, his French accent very nearly gone. It was very hard to pin down what exactly his nationality was from his speaking voice. He shoved Stephen Bader in front of him towards Sherlock and Molly. “My real name is unimportant. This whole operation has been fouled up beyond repair, but I’ll be damned if I’ll leave the money behind.”

“So you’ll just kill the three of us, take the money and hide in your hidey-hole until the police presence has dispersed, and then vanish into the night?” Sherlock said.

The man nodded. “Yes. I have done it before, I can do it again. Your lives and the life of this...rustic farmer are inconsequential. And I will have done the criminal world a favour by getting rid of the insufferable Sherlock Holm--”

He didn’t finish his sentence before he began howling in pain as a cast iron skillet crashed down on the wrist holding the gun. Sherlock turned and saw Molly wielding it with both hands, and then after a moment when the man looked at her she hit him in the face with the skillet, though not quite as hard. He crumpled to the ground, as still as could be. Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, did I kill him?” she asked.

Sherlock went for the gun before Stephen Bader got any ideas, and then went to the unnamed man and checked for a pulse. It was thready, but it wasn’t weak. “No, but he’ll need medical attention,” Sherlock said. Then he looked at Stephen. “You have some explaining to do.”

Stephen nodded. “Yes, I know,” he said, looking down.

Sherlock looked over at him. “Come with me. We need to get him medical attention and I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Then he looked over at Molly. “Will you be all right?”

She shifted her grip on the cast iron skillet. “I think so,” she said.

He stood up and then kissed her forehead. “You were quite brave,” he murmured. “You saved my life.”

“You would have done the same,” she said, looking up at him as the back door opened up and Lestrade came in with Sergeant Jones behind him.

“Sherlock, everything’s--” Lestrade began, and then stopped. “What in the bloody hell?”

“It appears we have the case wrapped up,” he said, taking the cast iron skillet from Molly’s grip. “But the murderer needs medical attention after a cast iron skillet to the wrist and face.”

“I see,” Lestrade said, moving closer. “I just came to tell you mobile service is finally back up. We can call in the big guns and get this all contained.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. He set the skillet on the table before nodding to Stephen. “This is Stephen Bader. You might want to have some words with him. And upstairs is two million, six hundred thirty-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-four in euro and proof of the smuggling ring. I have no idea who our unconscious murderer really is, but when and if he comes too, he may have answers for you.” 

“I’m sure.” Sergeant Jones took Stephen and put handcuffs on him before leading him out of the house, and Lestrade got on his mobile and dialed a number. “Anthea? I need to talk to Mycroft. Tell him Inspector Greg Lestrade would _really_ like to see him.” He gave Sherlock a look and then rolled his eyes before heading out after the sergeant.

Molly leaned into Sherlock. “You’ll be the death of me, you know?” she said.

“Ah, but what a way to go,” he said, pulling her close and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Miranda’s prediction came true, you know,” she said quietly after a moment’s silence.

“It did,” he said. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I suppose she’ll be happy that for once someone listened and the outcome was good.”

“Maybe we should tell her,” she said.

“Later,” he said. “First I would like to lay down and rest for a long while. Then we can tell her and leave this village and go somewhere nice and warm and relax and have a proper vacation.”

She pulled away slightly and looked at him, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “And maybe come back properly married?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her in surprise for a moment, and then a slow spreading grin formed on his face as he pulled her closer. “I don’t foresee any problems with that, as long as we agree to change our living situation when we return.”

“We can discuss the specifics on some nice tropical beach somewhere,” she said, looking up at him with a smile before raising herself up to kiss him. He kissed her back, keeping her as close as he could. He loved this woman more than he could ever imagine, and if he was lucky enough to spend the rest of his life with her, especially after everything they had been through this weekend, then he would grab the opportunity with both hands and never let go. After all, _chagrin partagé, chagrin diminué; plaisir partagé, plaisir doublé._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **QUOTES:**
> 
> _“How much is it?” “Two million, six hundred thirty-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-four.”_ **\- The Great Train Robbery**
> 
>  _“Tell him Inspector George Gently would **really** like to see him.”_ **\- George Gently**
> 
> **TRANSLATION:**
> 
> **chagrin partagé, chagrin diminué; plaisir partagé, plaisir doublé -** _joy shared, joy doubled; sorrow shared, sorrow halved_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "The Littlest Untruth"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738615) by [Twisted_Slinky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky)




End file.
